Mark Young - Off the grid

As they drew closer to the far shore, the vessel’s engine cut back and the boat feathered alongside a low-lying pier, a black Suburban parked on the wood dock. Alena reached inside her wet suit and withdrew a set of car keys. The vehicle lights came on briefly and the doors popped open when she pressed a button.

Alena’s hefty partner lowered himself next to her, and they lifted Gerrit to his feet. She put one of his arms around her shoulders. “Move slowly.”

He felt dizzy, light-headed. He was in no condition to argue. They eased him onto the wooden pier and into the backseat of the Chevy. Another man operating the boat pushed the vessel away from the pier before disappearing into the blackness with a roar.

As they pulled away in the vehicle, Alena-sitting in the front passenger’s seat-turned toward him. “Tell us where to go.”

He gave directions as they left the lakeside and headed for the outskirts of Seattle.

The man cringed as Kane’s voice screamed over the phone line. “I told you idiots not to move until I gave the order.”

He glanced at his partner next to him in disbelief. “We did not set the charge off. I am sitting right here with the transmitter turned off. I never got a chance to use it.”

“Well, it did not blow up by itself, you imbecile. Did you guys screw up setting the charge?”

“Sir, it just blew up. I can’t tell you anything more.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Not that we can tell. Saw a boat out on the lake, but as soon as everything blew up, the boat hightailed it out there.”

“Who was in the house.”

“Just O’Rourke. The woman left a few minutes before everything went up in smoke.”

“You still have someone on her?”

“Yeah. They’re bumper-locking her as we speak.”

“So she failed?”

“Uh-huh. She said the guy would not change his mind.” The phone line remained silent for a few seconds. “Sir, what do you want us to do?”

Kane’s voice came back, low and terse. “Clean up the mess. You know what you have to do. And take care of the other matter as soon as you leave the area.”

“His partner?”

“Do I have to spell it out for you? Clean up loose ends and get out of the state. Now!”

The man heard the line click and the connection die. He pocketed the phone and turned to his partner. “Let Bravo-Two know to move in and take care of business. We’ve been ordered to clear out and head to our second objective. The boss has a team coming in to shadow the investigation.” He pointed with his chin at the smoking heap of wood and twisted metal below.

Sirens began to wail in the distance. “Here comes the cavalry. Better late than never.” He chuckled as he dumped everything back into a black drop bag. “And we’re out of here.”

Gerrit’s body felt like he’d gone fifteen rounds with a heavyweight champion. Head pounding, he eased himself from the backseat of the Suburban and tried to stand. The other two quickly shed their wet suits. They emerged from both sides of the vehicle wearing blue denim trousers and dark shirts. His legs felt weak, and his head throbbed like a madman beating on a set of drums.

“Let me help you,” Alena said, rushing over. She put his arm over her shoulder and supported him as they walked toward the house. He heard the dog’s nails clicking on the concrete.

Tall, scraggly weeds and dry grass in the front yard advertised what this building represented-a dwelling abandoned by foreclosure. An under-the-table agreement between the police department and certain rental agencies allowed detectives to use selected residential housing to put up protected witnesses or give informants a place to crash during short-term sting operations. This was one of those places he and Taylor stashed Gregori before the ferry shooting.

“Reach under the second rock, near the front steps.” He pointed to the right of the concrete steps. “There should be a key.”

Alena’s heavyset partner stooped down, flicked over the rock. “Here it is.” The man sounded like he’d grown up in New York, a heavy Brooklyn accent, a strange contrast to Alena’s Eastern European inflections. The man stood, leaped up the front steps, and popped the door open. He turned back toward them. “Now where?”

Gerrit made his way up the steps with Alena’s help. Once inside, he extricated himself from her grasp and tottered toward a rear bedroom. He dropped to his knees and leaned under a queen-size bed. “Help me move this.”

Once they dragged the bed to one side, he found where loose boards had been pried up. Mark’s handiwork. Yanking up the boards, he saw it-the briefcase he had been given in Vienna. Opening up the case, he sighed with relief when he saw the laptop and thumb drive inside. He closed the case, then glanced up.

“Got it. Now let’s get out of here.”

Alena momentarily eyed the briefcase. “How do you say it here in America? Let’s scram?”

Gerrit smiled. “That’s what we say.” He rose to his feet and then his world turned black again.

Marilynn Summers climbed out of her coupe, closed and locked the door, before activating the alarm. She walked from her assigned parking space in the federal building toward the stairway leading to the lobby.

She began to relax, knowing that once inside she would have complete protection. She knew security cameras recorded her movement right now. Any hint of trouble and security would be running to her aid.

The only unease she felt at the moment had to do with a man a thousand miles away. Richard Kane. He had sent her to change Gerrit’s mind. That was her mission and she failed. Kane did not tolerate failure.

What was he going to do? Shoot her? Daughter of Senator Summers?

I think not, Mr. Kane.

The more she thought about it, the more secure she felt. Being John Summers’s only child brought some perks. Nobody but the senator could mess with her-and survive politically.

Footsteps echoed behind her.

She turned her head to see a man a few yards away. Funny, she had not seen another car enter the garage.

“Ms. Summers?”

She turned toward the voice as the man drew closer and her chest suddenly tightened. Just for an instant she saw a metallic reflection from something in the man’s right hand.

A gun.

Her brain registered an explosive flash. Then pain. Then nothing.

Clearwater River, Idaho

Daylight streamed through a dusty cabin window when Gerrit finally managed to open his eyes. He tried to remember the details of the ride from Seattle during the night. He must have slipped in and out of consciousness several times. He barely remembered climbing into bed.

Noise from a television drew his attention, his eyes slowly focusing on the screen. A news reporter, mike in hand, stood near where Gerrit’s boathouse once stood.

“A joint local, state, and federal task force investigation continues as authorities sift through what is left of Seattle Police Detective Gerrit O’Rourke’s home. A source close to the investigation revealed that there appears to have been a body inside the residence at the time of the explosion, possibly that of the missing officer. However, investigators refuse to confirm the identity as bomb experts continue to search for clues. A spokesman for SPD did confirm the explosion was intentionally set.”

Gerrit closed his eyes, a headache nagging at the backside of his brain. He reopened them to see that the television screen moved to another crime scene at the Henry M. Jackson Federal Building in Seattle. The garage entrance was taped off, and two uniformed officers stood guard, prohibiting a number of reporters and television camera crews from entering. The same announcer’s voice continued.